


The Locked Room

by Mount_Seleya



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, F/M, Fix-It, M/M, Metaphors, Mind Palace, Not Betaed, Not Britpicked, Pining, Sherlock Kink Meme, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 09:14:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1130842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mount_Seleya/pseuds/Mount_Seleya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the best man deduces he is in love with the groom and the voice of reason inside of his head is in love with the bride. Kink meme "fix-it" fill. Spoilers for "The Empty Hearse" and "The Sign of Three."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Locked Room

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut. Yellow walls stenciled with birds and butterflies disappear. Once again, he finds himself inside his mind palace, in the courtroom with the avatar of pure, cold reason wearing the face of his older brother. Familiar eyes bear down on him from the lectern, compelling him to think, to fit together the pieces of the puzzle.  
  
Locked room. Closed system. The killer steals in so stealthily that the trespass goes completely unnoticed. Stabs the victim so subtly he doesn't even feel it; doesn't realize he's done for until the knife has already stuck him deep.  
  
"Narrow it down," not-Mycroft orders, calm voice cutting clean as a scalpel through Sherlock's careening thoughts.

 

* * *

  
  
_The scent of baking bread embraces Mycroft the instant he passes through the front door into the foyer of 221B. He stills in his tracks, filled by sudden, unbidden memories of a time long passed, when it was just Mummy and him and the moon-faced woman at the corner bakery pressing a hot butter roll into his small, eager hands._  
  
 _His grip tightens around the handle of his umbrella. Sucking in a deep breath, he allows the warm, sentimental smell to suffuse his awareness like water flowing into a hollow, then banishes it with a single sharp exhalation._  
  
 _When he enters Sherlock's flat, bread is merely one in a nexus of smells invading his nostrils, along with dust, tea, and wool. John and his fiancé Mary are nestled beside each other on the sofa. Mycroft offers them a thin, businesslike smile, then walks to where Sherlock is hunched over a half-finished model of a reception hall._  
  
 _"Ambassador's aide, mid-thirties, found murdered in an alley in Prague," he says, tossing a file onto the desk._  
  
 _"Not interested," Sherlock replies, teasing the leg of a chair into place with a toothpick. "Quite busy at the moment."_  
  
 _Bending over his brother's shoulder, Mycroft hisses, "This may very well be a matter of national urgency."_  
  
 _"Then I'm sure it's best left in the hands of those with the appropriate training and clearance."_  
  
 _"Don't be such a child," Mycroft snaps, rolling his eyes as he draws back to his full height. He turns to leave, but catches Mary looking at him in the process, and something about the wry twist of her smile defuses his ire._  
  
 _"Bread's almost done," she tells him. "If you don't mind staying a bit, I can give you some to take home."_  
  
 _"Alas, duty calls," he replies, crisp and even, and then he proceeds down the stairs and out into the cool open air._

 

* * *

  
  
Impregnable fortress. Untouchable heart. Caring is not an advantage. Alone is the strongest of all armours.  
  
Cheeky warm hand squeezing his knee. Giddy drunk laughter. Ramparts breached; walls crumbling. But no, the interloper crept inside long ago, didn't he, laid patiently in wait for him to finally notice the unexpected presence?  
  
John. Always John. Flowing through his blood, seeping into him sinew and soul, as quietly as oxygen.  
  
Too much data. Too many thoughts crowding his head, all jostling against each other, fighting for dominance.  
  
"Narrow it down," not-Mycroft orders again, clutching the lectern white-knuckled and firm.

 

* * *

  
  
_"Come on, just try one," Mary urges, nudging the plate of still-warm chocolate biscuits on the table closer to Mycroft. "John's too good to give me his honest opinion and Sherlock's not due to eat until sometime tomorrow."_  
  
 _"I regret I must decline," Mycroft says, offering Mary a small, genuine smile. Such an enigma, this woman, so congenial and giving, and yet with secrets so closely guarded that not even he and his brother can hope to unroot them. He knows she keeps an aging tabby and taught English in Northern Europe for several years before turning to nursing. Beyond that, however, she remains a strangely pleasant unknown, a terra incognita waiting to be mapped._  
  
 _"Oh, don't worry, one biscuit won’t muck up your diet," Mary assures him, reaching down to pat his stomach._  
  
 _"But one invariably opens the way to another," Mycroft counters in crisply-enunciated Finnish._  
  
 _Mary's eyebrows lift in surprise. Her mouth curls into a sly grin. "Always nice to meet a fellow linguist."_

 

* * *

  
  
A single biscuit crumb caught in the little crease below the knot of a blue silk tie. Dilated pupils. Declined invitation.  
  
"Narrow it down," not-Mycroft spits, biting out every word, fierce as a cornered animal.

 

* * *

  
  
_Mellow spring sunlight spills through the latticed windows lining the exercise room. Mycroft's lungs are burning, his heartbeat hammering in his ears so loudly that he almost doesn't hear Sherlock's deep, hushed voice over the engulfing buzz of activity on the other end of the line: "Even at the eleventh hour, it's not too late, you know."_  
  
 _"Isn't unexpectedly showing up at weddings considered rather churlish?" Mycroft returns blandly._  
  
 _He humours his brother for another minute, then jerks the mobile away from his ear, thumbing the end call button. Expelling a long, weary sigh, he sets the device down on a nearby table, then walks back over to the treadmill._  
  
 _What he wants is to nuzzle into the graceful arc of Mary Morstan's neck, feel the warmth of her skin and the flutter of her pulse under his lips as he breathes in her scent, coffee and flour and the perfume of old, well-loved books. Whisper words of devotion to her in Greek, Serbian, Japanese and every language there is to learn._  
  
 _He wants to lay open her heart and chase all of the dark secrets haunting her to the ends of the Earth, until there's nothing left but the soft, anchoring weight of her head resting peacefully against his chest at night._  
  
 _He wants the cold, empty halls of his estate to be filled with high, shrieking laughter and the smell of fresh bread; to pluck cat hair off of his neatly-pressed trousers and feel the unexpected give of forgotten dolls on the stairs._  
  
 _He wants, for the first time in his life, things he never imagined he could want, but it is too late. The things he yearns for are foolish and impossible and dull, and now there's only his heart clenching like an empty fist and his feet pounding rhythmically on the treadmill, mile after mile after mile of running without moving forward an inch._

 

* * *

  
  
Pure, cold reason yanks his hand out from under his waistcoat, gazes at his red-tipped fingers with shock-wide eyes. "How?"  
  
"Funny thing, love," Sherlock replies. "Sneaks up on you like the invisible man with the invisible knife."  
  
"But how is this possible? I took every precaution against such... _weakness_."  
  
"Because you're only a man and sometimes men are wrong. But, trust me, you'll survive."  
  
Survive! Sherlock's eyes snap open, race down the length of the yellow hall, zero in on his favourite face in the world. "You, John Watson, it's always you," he says, striding toward the head table. "You keep me right."  
  
John rises from his chair, arms at his sides, a soldier standing at attention. "What do I do?"  
  
"You've already done it," Sherlock answers. "Don't solve the murder. Save the life."

 

* * *

  
  
Sherlock slips on his overcoat, pulls it tight around his body, cocooning himself against the night. Disco lights flicker at his back in a kaleidoscopic whirl of colour as he strides down the cobbled path away from the orangery. When he's walked about a hundred metres, he stops and plunges his hand into his pocket, extracting his mobile from its depths. He hesitates for a moment, his thumb hovering over the first digit of Mycroft's number, then dials.  
  
"How was the 'night do,' brother dear?" Mycroft preemptively asks. "I take it you've chosen to make an early exit?"  
  
"Pity you cannot find solace in Mary's contentment as I do in John's," Sherlock fires back.  
  
There's a long, tension-fraught pause, punctuated only by the staticky crackle of an exhalation in his Sherlock's ear. "Well," Mycroft says at last, a sharp, clipped syllable, "speak now or forever hold your peace."  
  
Sherlock ends the call without replying. Lets the mobile sink back into his pocket like a stone into water. Resumes his forward march, away from John, away from the treasure he squandered before its true value was known to him.  
  
Then he hears swift, clicking steps shadowing his stride, and wheels to see a beveiled figure standing before him.  
  
"Don't go," Mary says, eyes wide and shining in the light of the moon. "Whatever you do, please, don't go."  
  
"It was a lovely evening," Sherlock replies, "but I find myself wearied after so long in the presence of so many."  
  
"No, no, you don't understand," Mary insists. "I've made mistakes. So many mistakes. God knows I have. And I made another one today, probably the very best I'll ever make, but it's still wrong, still a mistake."  
  
Keeping his voice low and even to hide the sudden swelling of his heart, Sherlock asks, "What do you mean?"  
  
"I'm mad. Completely round the twist. Must be. But there's always someone lonelier, isn't there?"  
  
Sherlock's hands settle on Mary's shoulders. Steady her as if she might float away. "Yes," he says simply.  
  
"I need to call your brother," confesses Mary. "There's something I need to tell him."

 

* * *

  
  
John shoulders open the door to the flat, a heavy, battered cardboard box balanced in his hands. "You know, it wouldn't kill you to help," he grouses, beelining past Sherlock on the couch on his way to the bedroom.  
  
For a moment, Sherlock's breath seizes, and he stares down at where his hands are steepled together on his chest. His eyes slip shut. He hears the squeal of packing tape being cut followed by the _thud_ of a drawer being opened. Opening his eyes again, he inhales deeply, lets the final thread of disbelief fall from his mind.  
  
"Do mind not to mess up my sock index!" he calls out, lips twitching up into a small, secret smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the following anonymous [prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21766.html?thread=129484550#t129484550) on the Sherlock BBC Kink Meme: "Can I please get some fix-it, anything? I don't care what way, shape or form as long as it ends in John actually being with Sherlock. All I'm seeing seems to be either John/Mary with a heartbroken Sherlock or threesomes, neither of which are really my cup of tea. So I'd be happy for anything else, honestly."
> 
> Needless to say, I like Mary too much to sacrifice her happiness on the altar of Johnlock, and lonely!Mycroft makes me sad.
> 
> Some of the dialogue in this fic was borrowed from the episode "The Sign of Three."


End file.
